Foolish Mortal
by liliedove
Summary: A Dremora lord is relentless, sophisticated, and takes no part in the plane of Nirn. No lord would take interest in such a disgusting place. However, with the unwanted gift of a magical mirror, one such lord falls from his throne of honor. Like a toad in slowly heated water, he steps further and further into disgrace... by falling in love with a mere mortal.
1. The Markynaz and the Mirror

**A/N: **Hello all. This is my second Elder Scrolls fan fiction, my other and very active one being **Malevolence Festers**: a post-questline Listener fan fiction with plenty of CiceroxListener tucked in for good measure.  
I was originally planning on having this be a long one-shot. I eventually decided I'd prefer writing it in a multi-chapter format so it wouldn't feel as rushed. (So this is longer than it originally was going to be.) Still, this will be a short multi-chapter story as far as multi-chapter stories go. (At least, my definition of short. Certainly short in comparison to **MF**.)

Thank you to all who are reading this, and for any reviews. I highly appreciate it.

-Liliedove

* * *

The Dremora have as little to do with the mortal world as possible, for it is a most bland, displeasurable, and revolting plane of existence. Why it was ever created in the first place is an infuriating tale to be heard. Each plane of Oblivion, ruled by a great and mighty Dremora Lord, holds more wonders than the inhabitants of Nirn could ever fantasize obtaining in their pathetic realm.

Despite the widespread knowledge of how retched the mortal world was and always shall be, there have also always been those who have the most distasteful... delight, in the world of Nirn. So much so that artifacts had been forged, and exchanged between creatures of such unrefined interests, that connect them with the very realm sane and respectable Dremora despise. Many items have links to the mortal world, and of them is a rather popular variant. At least, it was a popular variant, until most were destroyed. However there are some of these artifacts left, these mirrors, which are held in high value to the few: for mirrors create the most intimate effect of connecting one plane to another.

This is the story of a Markynaz, a lord who serves under the Great Mehrunes Dagon, who descended into a state of shame and repulsion. One who left his title of honor, for a name given by a lowly womer.

The Dremora lord looked down at the Kynreeve, tapping a finger on his armrest. For a designated minimum amount of time, a lord is to sit in his throne room, accepting the audience of all who seek his attention. This was one of their many tiring but necessary duties. How much more of his time he was going to allow this low ranking official to waste was minutes at best. He was an ambassador for another lord, coming to pay tribute to their current alliance with our particular lord. The thing rambled on about how his lord wanted militia aid for his war efforts. Why the guards had given him access to his personal audience, he would have liked to know more than anything. They would pay for this, in their own blood. They would never think of allowing anyone but Mehrunes Dagon himself to go through without explicit instructions again!

He watched as the Kynreeve gave a signal to the kyn who accompanied him when he finished his speech; kyn were a rank that made the Kynreeve feel as though he had reason to be honored. They were a pathetic group of beings, really. Usually trained enough to appear proper, but truly lacking in any social ability past grunting if they were asked for their opinion. A couple of these creatures approached on the Kynreeve's command, holding an object between them.

"What is that?" He showed no real interest.

"My lord, it is a mirror." The Kyneeve presented it with a pleased tone, as though it were something magnificent to see, worthy of a Markynaz's refined tastes. The lord sneered. Intelligence seemed to be lacking in all but his own fellow lords and, of course, His Highness Mehrunes Dagon, but it seemed that even one of his own peers lacked his intellectual standing. Either that, or he was simply mocking him. Aid? Nae, retaliation was what he was requesting.

"You, a lowly Kynreeve, come into my presence and that is all you can offer? A _mirror_? And you expect to get away with you life?" He sounded angry.

"My lord, this is no mirror made in the lower realms. It was happened upon in one of our recent expeditions. It is a portal. A portal that will give you the sight and hearing to know all that occurs in Nirn. Look into it, and you will see and hear. Speak to it, and you can appear to those who are on the other side. Touch it, and you can travel into the realm Nirn itself."

"And what would a Markynaz want with the realm of men and mer?" He raised his lip, for he wasn't ignorant of it's poor reputation. Surely, this other Dremora lord was mocking his person. To think one would believe he would indulge in such things?

"You would be wise not to ignore it, my lord. This artifact was fashioned after the very things the Princes watch through. Would you not wish to be like one of them? Is it so dishonorable to do a thing that the Princes themselves do? Surely you are more sophisticated than that. These are the words my master has said to say if you were to question this honorable gift." A poor choice of words to speak towards one loyal to the caste system, for he didn't hear anything past the comparison made between him and the Princes. Nothing was to be tolerated: a possible insult or threat to a Prince's power was an insult or threat to a lord's power.

The lord sat straight on his throne, an accusing wave of the hand towards the creature. "Are you suggesting I defy my lords?" The creature moved it's mouth to speak in its own defense, but the lord did not allow the Kynreeve to say another word; his question was only made out of formality, but the decision on the pitiful thing's fate had already been decided. "Cast him and his soldiers out of my realm! Nae, kill them all! They are a disgrace! Then clean up what's left. This is what your lord has commanded you, do as I say." He watched idly as his own, higher bred kyn came down upon them, causing one by one of the visiting kyn to fall to the floor. To the Void of Voids, the home of Sithis, that's where he damned their souls. He wished their pain a strong endurance, even after their souls returned to the land of the living.

"My lord, what would you have us do with this?" One of the guards had picked up the mirror, which was still wrapped in a scarlet cloth. He grumbled, clearly not wishing to bother standing up. He continued to moan as he came to a decision, then heaving himself out of his throne. "Let me see that." He barked, taking heavy yet graceful steps down the hot stone stairs. He stood taller than any other creature in the room, and more broad than any other warrior could boast. His horns, twisting from his forehead, were a magnificent and humbling sight to be seen.

He pulled off the cloth with one swooping effort, revealing an unscathed surface which reflected his entire body. A well made mirror it was, surviving its rough landing. Just one look at it made it clear that it was created by some of the greatest craftsmen in all planes of Oblivion, but it was no portal. A worthless gift! Had the lord stopped at this moment, had he kicked it in like he thought he should, his reputation as a respectable Dremora lord would have stayed in tact. However, he did not, and that was his fatal mistake.

He took another moment to stare at his reflection. The reflection, however, suddenly began to muddy, fading into something else. He then took another step into his biggest mistake: he allowed himself to take a closer look. From a distance he could hear voices. A Dunmer came on scene, speaking in Nibenese to a female who followed him into the room. They were arguing about something. A moment later, another entered the room: a little merling girl. As the parents continued to argue, the mother furious and the father trying to give reason to the womer, the girl looked straight at the Dremora lord.

This was the moment he fell from his throne. This was the moment when he laid eyes on the thing that would dethrone him, yet did not know it.

He frowned when she approached him, curiosity shining in her eyes. What a foolish little creature! Even at her age, as a Dunmer she should have known what a Dremora was, or at least had noticed how terrifying he was. When she touched the surface of the mirror as a hand on glass, then beginning to make strange faces and smiling afterward, he realized she couldn't see him. Moments later, the mother pointed at the girl. The father looked, picking up a blanket as he rushed over. The mirror then went black, and the reflection of the lord reappeared. He then turned away from the mirror.

The most deteriorating, demoralizing thing occurred: he had become interested.

The Dremora lord smiled ever so slightly in his pleasure. He turned to his servants."Place it in my observatory." He waved them off with a hand, then making his way towards a private entrance only he and highly esteemed guests were allowed to use. "I will have no more visitors today. Any who come this far shall be given the same fate as these heretics."

Later, the lord appeared before the mirror again, but his reflection was the only thing it returned. He cursed it, and the Dremora lord went on as if the day had never happened, perhaps even forgetting it existed except on occasion when he cared to take notice of it sitting in the otherwise empty corner.

It would have been best if things had stayed that way. It did not.

* * *

**A/n: I updated this chapter, changing the formatting to break up some of the longer paragraphs. I didn't think it was necessarily necessary, but since it was brought up twice I decided to give way and pick some places within the paragraph I deemed reasonable to separate. Enjoy, the next chapter should be up within the next few days!  
**


	2. The Girl and the Mirror

**A/N: **I'm genuinely surprised at how many followers and reviews Foolish Mortal already has!(Especially with reviews, it's like pulling teeth to get people to review and I don't quite understand why.)  
Thank you for reading, and I hope you'll enjoy this short story!  
-Liliedove

* * *

Nirn: the realm of mortals. A plane filled with beasts that can handle its harsh waters and accursed sun.

It was a project Lorkhan, one of the Aedra, created for no plausible reasoning anyone can theorize. Those of the Aedra that realized the price they would pay for creating such a mess, thus abandoning it, were the wise ones. The remaining eight went on to become what the mortals call the eight divine; a laughable title, because their gods had lost their true divinity when they created that damned world.

Of its many beasts is one known to be ill favored by fate, cursed by one of the Daedric Princes during what they would call the First Era. It's curious that the one who would cripple the hard heart of a Markynaz, robbing him of all his glory, came from this race: a fate ill favored indeed.

"Rathyne, did you unpack the box with the paints?"

Gindas Salavel: a predictable Dunmer if there ever was one. Dutiful in religion, a studious scholar in the arcane arts, and a patron of art, literature, and all that shines. One of the many conjured reasons for ripping his young family's roots out of Morrowind was that he wished to expand on his views and to find a way to open both the mindset of the Dunmer and that of everyone else to one of mutual acceptance. A more likely story was that he simply wanted find a place he was welcome to open his leisure reading material and dabble with his paints without being bothered by anyone; for who wanted to socialize with a Dunmer if they themselves weren't of the Dunmer in the first place?

"Yes Pa, I'm unpacking it now." His young daughter set a small chest containing oil paints and brushes beneath the easel. She was the oldest, and the only daughter they had. That must have suited them quite well; in no race is the female as strong and glorious as the male.

Her father poked his head into the room, worrying about his worthless rows of what they would deem works of philosophy, his treasures that are encompassed by the word rubbish, and his precious box of the poor quality substance they use as paint."Be careful with them, they're expensive! Every drop is worth a septim, remember that!" He shook a finger in the air, clearly hesitant in leaving his things with the merling whose height hovered below his waistline.

The girl rolled her eyes disrespectfully. "I know Pa! I don't think I'll be able to waste any of your precious paint while it's in this box." She patted it as if it were a dog.

"Alright... Just be careful. It is expensive." He then left, fiddling his fingers together in a nervous manner.

Even the girl knew that her father was a rather strange mer, worrying over petty things. This recent move brought the worst out of him with his particularities. She took comfort in the fact that most of the unpacking was over and done with.

Lifted voices could be heard from the kitchen. Her parents did that when things got stressful. Her mother, Minasi Salavel, would be the first to break down over something Gindas was doing wrong, and then he would try to prove why he wasn't wrong. Usually her mother was right anyway; a foolish creature indeed, his wife being wiser than he himself was.

Rathyne, the accursed child, closed the door in the hopes of muffling out some of the fighting. It would be over in a few minutes, but she was exhausted from the trip herself and didn't want to put up with even a second of it.

She went back to unpacking boxes, the next few being full of more of her father's worthless books. The entire room was dedicated to his obsession, and was one of the reasons why he speculated that they needed to buy a new home. Why that meant they had to leave their homeland is something we won't even waste the time analyzing: the actions of mortals are fickle and illogical.

By the time she had unpacked most of the boxes, playing with the objects half of the time, the room seemed a lot smaller than when she had first started. The walls were completely lined with oak shelves, small tables, and a matching set of two blue armchairs.

There was also one other thing, leaning against the back wall where her father set it when he first carried it in. A thing that had always been in their home, but was never on display. A thing that shouldn't have been allowed to exist... A mirror, covered in an old, moth bitten cloth.

The merling remembered seeing it once or twice in the basement back in their old home. Perhaps her father had simply forgot about it? For all the intelligence that mer carried, it wouldn't be a surprise, no not at all, if he had simply forgotten it among his hoards.  
She pulled off the cloth, coughing from the dust that stirred. The little thing gasped when she saw the entirety of it; and why wouldn't she? She, a mere mortal, standing before such craftsmanship that could never be made within the mortal realm? She traced the intricate designs of the frame with her miniscule fingers, smiling to herself. She bundled up the cloth in her hand, running it up and down the parts she could reach in order to brush off the thick layer of dust. She marveled at it all the more when she saw her reflection clearly.

If the stupid child had been struck dead at that moment, things would have remained how they were, and the Markynaz would still be in power today.

* * *

The Dremora lord sat at his chair, staring out across the plane. He retired to his observatory when he could, simply to sit in that seat and look out and down from the great window spanning across the tower wall like a crescent moon. He saw everything, and how marvelous it all was! It was all his: from the towering heights, to the far distant fire marshes. This was something all Markynaz did naturally, and in every right. As he relaxed, however, he heard something he shouldn't have. Or rather, something he should have chosen to act differently about.

There was the sound of shuffling feet drawing nearer to him. He didn't bother to look behind him for he knew what it likely was: there must have been news for him to see to. He snarled at the thought: the guards knew better than interrupting him in his spare hours! He waited for them to approach him, but as he waited patiently with his hands folded together he found that they spent far too long attempting to approach him. Surely they were hesitant out of fear. That fear they felt was a legitimate fear, and one that would make their nightmares come true, for they were wasting his time.

"I didn't call you, WHY are you HERE?" He growled. There was no response. He hated those who wasted his time. He waited for another moment, listening for any more sounds of movement. When he did hear the ruffling of robes, his anger grew. "ANSWER YOUR LORD!" Still no response. In aggravation, he stood. Surely the cowards were already running in the pathetic hope of survival! He turned, his cape falling majestically behind him. But when he looked to see the soon to be dead kyn who dared to defy his orders, no one there. He heard more footsteps, and a murmured voice. Clenching his fists, he began marching around his observatory. They had to still be in there! And when he found them, he would kill them with his bare hands! He gazed around the room. Still there was nothing to be seen, but the noise continued. By this point he was completely infuriated, his veins pulsing. "SOMEONE WILL BE DEAD TONIGHT IF YOU DO NOT RESPOND!" The steps stopped.

"How beautiful!" He was puzzled by what he had heard. He turned around the room as a humming noise began. He then froze when he found himself in front of a mirror: the very mirror he had ordered his guards to place in his observatory some time ago. He had forgotten about it, its magic ceasing not long after he had first obtained it. But now, now it was working!

His anger quickly disappeared. Occasionally he could hear things: a whisper, a groan, weeping, screaming, shouting. He could even at times see through small holes that allowed him to spy into a dark room. Now it seemed to be working properly once more.

He approached, the blurred outline of a small creature before him. In another moment the figure began moving something along the other side, making the picture clear. It was but a child, a Dunmer child. She was small, and innocent: not even strong enough to hold up a dagger! She blinked as she stared at his knees, then twisting her silver hair with a finger, smiling at herself. It dawned on him that she must have been the little girl from the last time, only now she was much bigger than before: time for mortals certainly passed at a very fast rate.

"Why did Pa cover this thing up?" Her voice was so light and fairy like. It was irritating. She then disappeared from sight. He could hear something being stacked and her struggling breath. She then appeared again with two small crates in her arms, giving an exasperated sigh when she attempted to open the door of the room she was in. She eventually gave up and dropped the boxes, opening the door before struggling to lift them up into her arms again.

The lord laughed. "Foolish mortal!" He cried.

His attention was consumed by what the mirror showed. Thus began his descent into shame.


	3. Developing Tendencies

**A/N:** Thank you all for your lovely reviews! I do appreciate them very much. :)  
Again, if you enjoy my work and would like to continue to be entertained between chapter releases, my other story is also a frequently updated story with much long chapters.

-Liliedove

* * *

When it is said that he descended into shame, any account of his own shame towards his actions are not noted. Rather, he descended into what is shameful and dishonorable, making him unworthy of life.

It is likely that he did not even realize his descent as it was occurring, the slow decline pulling him deeper and deeper unknowingly; for how else could something as intelligent and sophisticated as a Markynaz fall into such a state? Mortals rise and fall, but they are no more than animals, they have no intelligent reasoning to preserve them past primal thoughts and needs. The Dremora dwell in a much higher plane of existence, and it is because of this that the Markynaz's descent was far greater disgrace than any other descent known to kyn.

The Dremora lord had become highly entertained by the mirror, and the things that it showed him. It became a new past time for him, for in his spare time he no longer sat to observe his territory: the natural thing for a Markynaz to do. No, instead he reclused himself in the observatory, his chair not facing the window in the front of the room but rather facing the mirror in the back of the room. This was a behavior that should have been questioned, but it had not raised any attention for no kyn ever realized that it was, in fact, happening.

The most frequent actor in his mirror was the merling girl who, if he waited long enough, would bound into the room; twirling around in an oversized dress or playing with her hair. What silly, foolish creatures lived in Nirn; their worries, their cares, especially those of a child. She was mildly entertaining, he supposed, but what was more entertaining to watch was when Gindas Salavel came into the room.

Every few days, the father would come into the study. He would either sit down with one of his books, fidgeting and making strange comments aloud, or he would, after a great amount of pondering aloud to himself, decide to take out his painting materials. However, after watching this for a time, the lord would grow bored. He would moan and groan, leaning back in his chair with his chin resting on his fist. Why he didn't come to his senses and throw the mirror across the room, we can only ponder as a defect of the brain. Something that had broken inside kept him glued to his seat, unmoving. It was as if the mirror had taken his very soul, keeping him captive and controlled: yet another reason to avoid any connections with the dreadful world of Nirn, for while it is a pathetic plane in many ways it still holds unknown power that has given unneeded headaches for the Kyn in the past .

Sometimes he was, by some strange reasoning to be sure, amused by the Mer's paintings. He was quite good, for a mortal. He was clearly featherbrained, never noticing the mirror until one day it suddenly dawned on him.

"Minasi? Minasi!" He called, first glancing both ways down the hall before leaving the room to search for her. "Minasi!"

The womer came into view, an exasperated expression on her face. Her hands were on her hips, a ladle in a hand. She had been cooking, and was very much displeased with being interrupted with another one of her husband's fickle obscurities. "What is it, _dear_? I am quite busy, and if you want to have supper on the table tonight you'll make this quick."

"This!" He exclaimed, walking back in to his study.

"What exactly is 'this'?" She huffed.

He returned to her, grabbing her hand. "Come now dear, you're supposed to follow me!" He said as he furrowed his brow. He led her in front of the mirror, then folding his arms against his chest. "THIS!"

She looked down her nose at him, narrowing her eyes. "Yes? What about it?"

He gaped at her, grabbing a handful of the material he had placed over the mirror in between his fingers. "It wasn't covered! _Why _wasn't it_ covered_?!"

She threw her hands down, shaking her head as she looked to the heavens. "By the Tribunal, Gindas! You'd think it was a crime to have a mirror uncovered by how you're reacting! It's a_ mirror, _it is _ meant_ to be uncovered!"

He clenched his jaw as he released the material, throwing his fist down. "No! Not_ this _mirror! It needs to be covered, do you understand?"

His wife shook her head again as she prayed out loud to her gods, asking to be released from her troubles as she walked back to the kitchen. As it was, fate played out in her favor. Within the next several months, Gindas Salavel found business in Evermor; a neighboring city in Highrock that lay southwest from Skyrim's Solitude, where they resided.

"I'll be back before you know it!" He declared. "I hope you don't miss me too terribly, as I will miss you and the children."

The curiosities of the accursed child did not dwindle. With her father gone, she began venturing into his study all the more, taring away the cloth he had placed over it. On one occasion, an idea came to her strange mortal mind: to move the mirror into her own bedroom. Hoping her husband would cease eying the thing, or forgetting about its existence all together, her mother reluctantly agreed and lugged it into the room herself.

"No, ma! I want it right here, right HERE!" she squealed with joy as she pointed at the space between her dresser and vanity.

Her mother sighed, leaning against its frame as her daughter struggled to move the carpet closer. "Now Rathyne, don't reorganize the room around this mirror!"

"I'm not!" She said innocently with a smile. "I'm just making it look better."

* * *

The Dremora lord had been preoccupied for a long period of time, and rightly so: for a Markynaz has many responsibilities to look after. Therefore, when he returned to the mirror he was surprised to see a new environment set before his eyes: a small room with a bed, dresser, and a chair sitting beside a window which streamed rays of the accursed sun into it that reflected off of the mirror into his eyes. Before the mirror was what he soon recognized as being the merling girl, who was taller and more filled out than the last time he had seen it. She looked very pleased to have the mirror in her room, constantly returning to gussy up to it. When she would be sent to her room to study, she would sit on her bed, but her gaze would always flicker over to the mirror. Another fact about mortals is that they are very simplistic: a single object with little purpose can become something they latch onto, and long after desperately when they do not have it. Whether it be a beverage or dish, a creature, a schedule: they become highly attached.

The merling girl had younger siblings who also came and gawked at the mirror, playing before it. They screeched and laughed in their disgusting light pitches. Such irritating creatures they were! But the accursed girl was his favorite. Rathyne, a creature at the tender age of 12 rotations around their blasted sun: a short amount of time, yet like other mortals she grew at what would be seen as alarming rates in the realms of Oblivion. They are like animals: quick to come and quick to go.  
She was fond of dancing around in her skirts, pretending to be a conjurer. She narrated as she acted. A necromancer sometimes, using her younger brothers as her thralls. He laughed at this. Those who played with life and death were those who sought after power. To use it as play at such an age was "promising in his eyes", as he noted in his journal. Promising for what purpose he saw, we may never come to comprehend.

"Ma! Rathyne is being a witch again!"

While her brothers were good sports, Rathyne's sister was one who did things by the book. Her parent's book. Their mother left the ladle in the pot as she strode towards the stairs.

"Rathyne!" She called. Opening the bedroom door, she watched as one of the boys attacked the other with outstretched arms, clamping down his teeth on his arm. The boy cried out in pain, pushing and kicking the other one off. Rathyne turned to see her mother's look of disbelief. "Rathyne Salavel!"

"What? It's just for play." She gave a dignified expression: many mortals go through a phase of rebellion from their caregivers.

Her father had been gone for nearly a year, letters about his achievements of selling his wares in High Rock coming in with each shipment brought to port. In the time he had been gone, Minais Salavel had found rearing children and stretching the money that could be sent back safely through shipment to be a difficult task alone. Luxuries they once enjoyed had to be set aside for another time, and her blooming eldest was becoming more than a handful to deal with. She grabbed her daughter's arm, dragging her outside of the room.

"ouch!" She cried, wincing as she attempted to pull her arm out of her mother's grasp.

"You know better, Rathyne!" She scolded. " How many times do we have to tell you that behavior is not acceptable?"

The furrowed her brow, a defiant look upon her small features. "But Ma, we're Salavels! Conjuration is family tradition!"

"We are not in Morrowind anymore! People here already associate us with the dark arts, and a daughter of _mine _will not get tangled up in them! It's dangerous Rathyne!"

The girl grumbled as she twisted her feet. "Where is the honor in that? Aren't we to honor our ancestors, Ma? Haven't you always taught me that? You and Pa? Are you saying our ancestors were evil and to be thrown away like garbage?"

Her mother sighed, taking her child's hands in her own. "Darling, I understand where you stand. We are in Skyrim, where the Nords are already weary of the other types of magic. Conjuration, necromancy... They understand it even less. We are already being closely watched by everyone in the village, they're expecting us to do something suspicious. If they know that you have an interest in it, they'll start causing trouble for our whole family."

Rathyne gazed into her mother's concerned eyes. "I was only playing, Ma."

The child continued to grow, learning that she could no longer do as she wished publicly. Instead, she became conniving: to her family's knowledge, she lost interest in their family traditions just as she should. The witch, if she had done as she was told our lord would likely have kept his honor in tact.


	4. The Door to Death

**A/N: Well, hello all! Now isn't this exciting? My first update since June! **

**I'm sure some individuals are disappointed that I wrote a new chapter for this before Malevolence, however due to the current length of it as well as my chapter lengths for FM, this was much faster to review and write for than MF. (I am currently still re-reading MF. I'm almost through it all, but it has taken time to re-read and figure out all the little things I put in chapters on purpose to link to later chapters.) For those who would like updates as to when I am going to update/how far I am in updating, CHECK MY PROFILE PAGE. I have a note I leave there with a date of when I posted it.**

**Anyhow, enjoy!**

**-Liliedove**

* * *

...

Each of the Dremora Lords has his own extra-curricular specialty known greatly far and wide; for the skills and talents of the high born are a magnificent sight to be seen. When one deemed worthy of the title _lord_ is born, they are brought up in a way that develops these talents, bringing them to their full potential before their title is given. One might ask why this is necessary, when the duties of a lord do not require such a thing. To answer this, one must understand that those of the higher class have social expectations unbeknownst to lower born individuals; intelligent though they may be. Things such as class and social standings are important and influential amongst the high born, despite the sporadic occurrences of social gathering. It is within these rare gatherings that titles are given to those deemed worthy enough to gain them, over another individual also nearly equal in footing as they. As one can now see with this new understanding given, these special skills are needed to win the title of lord.

Our particular lord had an excellent understanding of a material properties, the effects a substance has on another, and the great potential these properties have at their almost limitless combinations. He studied under the Great Alchemists, thus nearly reaching a title of such honor as theirs as well as the title of lord. However, he preoccupied himself with wars and other hobbies such as the cross breeding of more sophisticated Kyn bloodlines, attempting to create better soldiers for his armies. However, if one were to take hold of his notes of research, one would see that his studies did not end with the Great Alchemists, but span over a great many new discoveries that are only now being made aware of by budding alchemists of our day and age. Obtaining these notes, unfortunately, is nearly impossible, for they are now stored in Apocrytha.

What wonders could have come about from our lord's research will only be imagined. Perhaps an early wide discovery of a vaccine against the negative effects suns from other realms have on our demeanor? An end of Summonings to the realm of Nirn by force, thus avoiding binding contracts with mortals? One may only speculate the great knowledge lost to our world with concordance to his unseemly actions.

He abused his talents so graciously bestowed upon him, to use such a thing for a mortals good in return for nothing at all. It was completely absurd, and another observation as to the steps he began to make towards his great decent.

...

The child had fallen sick. A thick frost had settled over the land, and while the expensive potions the year before kept severe illnesses away from the Salavel's foreign immune systems, this years had not. The symptoms she had were the following with accordance to our lord's personal journals: a whooping cough, a great heating of the body, shortness of breath, great fatigue, and a constant chill to the bones.

"Ma, the doctor is here." Minasi Salavel turned from stooping over her daughter. At the sight of the Nord standing beside her son in the doorway, a look of relief graced her worried face.

The bearded man gestured towards the bed with his briefcase. "Is this the ill?" He said in a gruff voice. The mother ushered him quickly to the merling girl's side, brushing back the loose hairs from her forehead. The doctor set his briefcase to the side, untying the small stool folded against the back of it. Setting it beneath him, he began looking over the child, muttering and humming to himself. "Madam Salavel, is it? How long has she been withstanding these ailments?"

"It has been two weeks since it began… We've taken the top quality medicines to keep these nasty things away, so I didn't suspect anything serious when she first started showing signs of the illness." She looked down at Rathyne, whose eyes were growing heavier by the minute. The doctor put an ear to her chest, counting to himself. Minasi Salavel bit her lip. "What can be done to get rid of it?"

"You said she has had this for two weeks, correct?" He then rubbed his chin, then shaking his head. "Illnesses such as these are spread rampantly during this time of the harvest season. I've treated many people for symptoms such as these, but it's rather... difficult, to find a body in the young and the old that can withstand the fight inside. The medication might do her some good, but there are no guarantees, especially in this case. I've never seen someone so advanced into this kind of illness after two weeks."

The womer became flustered, her eyes nearly boiling over with rage. "Are you saying there is nothing that can be done?" She exclaimed angrily. The Nord turned to look at her, a sympathetic look upon his face.

"If you would like, you can try an antidote that is still being tested. It has worked for some patients, but… Again, it is still in its testing stage, and your daughter is already almost past any chance of seeing brighter days."

"I'll take it!" She exclaimed. The doctor bent down and began digging in his briefcase, then emerging with a small red vial in his hand.

"That will be another 400 septims to your price." He said sternly as he looked down his nose at her. She furrowed her brows together as she pulled out a purse of gold.

...

All the while, the Dremora lord watched eagerly at the events unfolding before him. He watched as she lay in bed whooping, her mother shooing her other children out of the room constantly. While this was a daunting thing to face for the Dunmer family, it was seen as quite another thing by our lord. A new form of entertainment! Her dancing and playing were so repetitive, so tiresome, but a struggle for survival? Now that was entertaining! Gripping to life, not knowing if you'll see another day: she would likely die, but maybe she would live. The idea was thrilling!

Each day she grew worse: paler, groans growing softer, breaths becoming lighter. A mother weeping as she looked down at her sleeping girl, always in pain. Ah, but some days she seemed stronger. Seemed to be able to eat and drink. She was fighting from the inside! Fighting with all of her tiny little might, reaching for life's hand! She would survive, he just knew it. She had to of course. She would live, wouldn't she?

He decided the doctor they had was useless. If he couldn't even provide medicine to heal the girl, why not use a simple healing spell? Ah, but he was a Nord. Nords didn't like magic. The simpletons: afraid of their own shadows in the thought that it might come upon them and kill them as they sleep! The poor Dunmer family, surrounded by such a primitive culture that only served a man god. Mortals were so ignorant, especially men, and especially the Nords of Skyrim.

The child, she hadn't experienced anything in life yet. How frail these mortals are, with so little life within them... Nirn was an accursed place. A place that should have never been made, should never be entered. Death was eminent in that realm. Those pathetic creatures. He watched as the doctor escorted the woman out of the room as she wept in her hands, this visit decidedly being his last to their home: there was little life left in the small body. But she wouldn't die, she had to survive. She had to survive.

The lord furrowed as he held his chin. Things weren't going how he planned. She wasn't supposed to die. What a pathetic loss! Any one of his simple potions would do for thing like that! He paused. Maybe, just maybe this once... He could intervene.

He stood, and quickly walked out of the observatory and into his laboratory. He was back in minutes, his fingers curled around a small glass bottle. Just this once he would intervene. If he didn't, what would he do in the spare hours? Stare out across the realm as he once did? It was nothing, nothing compared to this.

He approached the mirror, and slowly he reached out and touched it, his legs passing through it and onto the plush throw on the floor. He sucked in the heavy air. Was all of Nirn like this, the atmosphere of the whole realm so thick and hard to consume, or was it simply this room? He saw her lying motionless on the bed. Death was already crawling all over her.

She was faintly breathing with long pauses between. He uncapped the bottle, then taking the other hand beneath her head, lifting her. Her eyes fluttered open slightly.

"Drink this," he commanded. She stared up at his face, frowning ever so slightly. He pressed it further against her lips. "It is medicine, drink it or die."

Slowly she began to drink. When she finished, he laid her back again, then putting the cap back onto the bottle. He heard a gasp, and glanced behind him. The mother stood motionless at the door. He then glanced between the mirror and the womer casually.

"The girl will be well again, daughter of Azura. She has favor. Turn away, so that I may leave." The womer obeyed, turning to face the other room. The lord then returned through the mirror, watching again as the mother ran into the room, looking for him. When she realized he would not be found, she ran to her daughter, calling out her name. The girl sat up, color now returning to her face.

"Yes womer, your daughter is well once more. And now, the life of Rathyne Salavel belongs to me."

With that declaration, a declaration that even at it's most lenient definition bound him in a more private matter towards the mortal, he had opened the door to death.


End file.
